


I Wanna Hold You like You're Mine

by runboyrun



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Butt Plugs, Cock Warming, Crossdressing, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, First Time, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Overstimulation, POV Multiple, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: Stan's hand was moving before he could think better of it, wanting to touch the pleated navy skirt in front of him. God, it looked so soft, it must feel amazing. The whispered drag across his thighs -“What’re you doin’?”Stan’s hand froze, looking up at Richie’s unfocused gaze. No aide of glasses to let him see Stan’s heating face in the low light.“Nothing.”Richie’s eyes squinted, trying to make out the shapes around him until he looked to where Stan’s hand still hovered. The small inhale and grin let Stan know he didn’t need his vision clear to figure out what was going on. He always did know Stan too well.“You’d look pretty in that.”





	I Wanna Hold You like You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathplayed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathplayed/gifts).



Beverly’s one bedroom apartment had become nothing short of a warzone. Stan figured he shouldn’t be surprised - but the two hour mark had to be a record of some kind. No sooner had the Losers wandered in one by one that their queen shouted out some sort of battle cry. Every responded in kind; college was over, diplomas received. Adulthood was beginning.

And what better way to ring in a life of taxes and mortgages than to leave the old one behind with one last chaotic hurrah?

Beverly was the best meeting point between the universities, so Stan had boarded a plane with Richie in tow to Chicago. The taller boy had insisted they drive, but Stan knew that deathtrap wouldn’t make it past the California state line.

They were the farthest of the Losers; both had attended NYU but Richie insisted on moving to Los Angeles the second he had a grip on his degree. Stan, knowing Richie, didn’t want him to die somewhere in the desert along the way. The drive had taken three days of blurred landscapes and gas stations. Stan couldn’t have told anyone what had even happened after except for the second night in Colorado.

They’d been making good time, Stan was at the wheel pushing 80, but Richie had started to fidget until Stan finally turned to him with an exhausted, “What?”

“I gotta pee.” Richie whined, head thumping against the window.

“It’s about twenty miles to the next gas station.” Stan sighed. “We need to refuel anyway, you can piss and buy less soda.”

A dramatic groan sounded to his right and Stan felt his eye twitch.

“I can’t hold it that long. Just pull over.”

“No,” Stan shot back. “It’s pitch black out and we’re on a mountain. I don’t need you dying.” He reached across to squeeze Richie’s clenching thigh. “Just hold it, we’re almost there.”

“... Nah.”

Stan heard the _click_ of Richie’s belt buckle and turned to admonish his reckless passenger habits before pausing. The taller boy was half squatting on his seat, pressing his hips to a slowly lowering window.

“... What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Richie mumbled, pulling down his sweats.

“ _Richie.”_

“I got this, Staniel!”

But before Stan could figure out how to reason with a psychopath, Richie had begun to piss.

The _problem,_ Richie seemed to quickly realize, with pissing out a window while going 80 miles per hour was that wind was a factor. Stan’s shriek of disgust was almost as loud as Richie’s shout of horrible realization.

“Aaah! Shit! _Shit!”_ Richie yelled, fruitlessly trying to redirect the backlash. Richie and the bags behind his chair quickly falling victim to the spray.

“Stop _peeing!”_

“You _know_ it doesn’t work like that!” Richie swung around to yell, aim no longer out the window but -

“What the _fuck!”_

Stan felt his arm heat from sudden moisture and nearly drove them off the road. Richie’s stream hitting him squarely in the chest. Richie cupped his hand over himself in a fruitless grasp at retribution; but the damage was done.

By the time Richie had finished Stan stopped screaming if only out of self preservation. He would not end this road trip and be unable to say nothing had peed into his mouth. Richie sat back down quietly, the whir of the rolling window sealing out the wind to bring deafening silence.

“I cannot believe,” Stan finally spoke - voice devoid of any emotion. “That you peed on me.”

Richie looked at his hands.

“I have never been peed on in my life. And you peed on me.”

“Yeah…” Richie sighed, then looked at Stan with a poorly repressed smile. “But did you like it?”

“Do you actually want to die, Tozier?”

“Oh geez,” Richie chuckled. “I’m gonna die on the fury road.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey, Stan?” Richie whispered, head still ducked in some semblance of shame.

“What?”

“If Bill were here it’d be the furry road.”

The silence that followed was only distorted by the muffled snickers of Richie. Stan’s eyes slid over to Richie. Dead expression firmly in place as he stared at the nearly in tears Tozier. Stan could feel the corners of his mouth betraying him. Trying to form a smile when he was ready to just drive them both off a cliff.

But he was helpless to the charm of Richard Tozier. The giggle that bubbled out of him became a laugh that had him in tears. The two boys were beside themselves, covered in pee, and wheezing for air around their cackles.

The prodigal rest stop glowed along the highway, both boys calmer and colder now. Stan stumbled out of the car and went for his bag when he realized his duffel had been open - he’d wanted his jacket about fifty miles back because of Richie’s cars inefficient heating. The entire bag was undoubtedly sprayed in sin.

Stan thunked his head against the car door as Richie rounded around with his own bag.

“What’s up, Stan my man?”

“Is it too late to kill you?” Stan groaned, face squished against metal.

“Yep. We laughed, we cried, we both baptized in the golden - “

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Right, sorry.” Richie winced, seeing the clothing situation. “Borrow mine.”

Stan turned his head only enough to see him.

“You’re huge.”

“Just my dick.” Richie responded without pause. “C’mon, we’ve only got another day to go, you can wear my clothes for twenty four hours without dying.”

Stan was too tired to come up with some quip back, which was really saying something. Richie wrapped an arm around his neck, took the keys, and locked the car as he guided Stan to the building.

The cashier didn’t give them a second glance as they slouched their way to the restroom, Richie pulling clothes out haphazardly for them both to wear.

Stan ended up in what could only be described as short shorts - garishly peach in color - and a striped sweatshirt. The latter was big even on the taller boy, and the hem rested just along the edge of the shorts. Stan looked pantsless.

Richie was running his hair through the sink when he looked at Stan and barked out a laugh.

“Aww, babe, you look like you’re in a dress.”

Stan flushed at that, moving beside him to wash the last of the urine away.

“Shut up.”

“No, it’s cute. Cutest boy in the world, that’s my Stan.”

Richie pulled him in for a hug before Stan ducked away; he wasn’t getting pee on anything else today.

Richie huffed a laugh before kissing his shoulder and tugging the sweatshirt so it rested past the shorts - dress illusion more believable.

“So fuckin’ cute.” He sighed before dipping out to the store front.

Stan flushed, staring at his wide eyes in his reflection before grabbing the bottom of the sweater. There was an array of mismatched clothes still in the bag. He could change.

Stan zipped the bag closed and tugged the sweater down a little further.

“Drop the soda, Richie!”

Richie didn’t drop the soda, but Stan wasn’t worried about a retake of the _Colorado Shower_ ; Stan punched Richie so hard for the name that he had actual tears despite his giggles.

But, they finally made it and Stan had helped him unload his truck into the 300 square foot studio before hopping on a plane to Bev and the club. They didn’t get three feet through the threshold before mismatched cups of “fuel” were put in their hands. Stan lifted his to sip, but Richie’s hand snuck under his cup and held it firm until he had no choice but to chug.

Richie had worked as a stagehand for the last year of college and had gained muscles Stan wasn’t prepared to combat. The smaller boy just focused on not spilling his drink onto the rug beneath him or the array of dress and skirts around him.

Beverly had majored in fashion design and her living room was practically a closet with how many of her creations hung on nails in the wall or clung to mannequins. It would be creepy if they weren’t so breathtaking.

Richie dropped onto the couch, pulling Stan into his lap to, “Help with limited seating, Stanley. Don’t be greedy.” Or so he claimed. Stan just took another sip.

The night quickly started to fade into a flurry of shouts and shots. Everyone huddled into the couch to tell horror stories of professors and future goals and committing to brunch plans no one would remember. Eddie had saved an event in his phone for six years from the date with only _‘fuck thEM EGGS UP’_ as explanation.

One thing that shouldn’t have waited to be decided until after sobriety faded was sleeping arrangements. Bev had gotten a steal on the space, but there was only one bed and couch respectively. The couch could fold out but Bill, Mike, and Eddie had claimed it. The smallest boy’s face had left no room for argument. But, Stan supposed the distance always left the trio clinging when possible.

Ben came into the living room with only one sleeping bag, an faded fleece lined memory of sleepovers as kids. It was luckily adult size, but would be a tight fit if they thought -

Richie yanked Stan in close with a booming laugh, “We can share!” He proclaimed. “Stanny and I are no strangers to spooning.” The blink that had probably been a wink in Richie’s mind made everyone groan, Stan the loudest.

They had fucked around a bit in college, mostly out of boredom and familiarity. Honestly, Stan hadn’t even intended to start any sort of Losers with benefits but an… _incident_ had lead to doors opening. Richie never brought that up at least, thank God. Stan’s pretty sure he’d kill the trashmouth and then himself.

Richie was a player, somehow making the coke bottle glasses and constant bedhead and atrocious shirts work in his favor. He was charming, though Stan would never admit that, and knew how to make someone feel safe, to open up to him - _for_ him.

Christ, Stan might need another drink. Or ten.

“I-Is that o-oh-okay?” Bill asked, despite already starting to unfold the couch.

“Yeah,” Stan sighed. “Why not?”

They’d been in tighter spots.

  


\-----

  


Getting texts from Stan wasn’t anything unfamiliar - they were best friends after all - but “ccom orfversfd” was not in the _Uris Standard_ for Richie.

Pleawesfd snowe ddfsjei

What the fuck even?

Richie called Stan, it rang a little too long for how prompt Mister Uris normally operated. He picked up at the last second.

“Are you dead?” Richie asked abruptly.

Only panting breaths and sniffles answered.

“If you’re dead you have to tell me.” Richie continued, joking tone still in place as he tugged his shoes on. This was weird, Stan was being weird in a very un-Stan fashion.

“Can you please say something?” Richie asked, worry finally leaking into his tone as a sob bubbled from the receiver. “Stan, c’mon - shit. I’m coming over.”

Richie hung up before Stan’s breathing could freak him out more, taking off across the campus to Stan’s dorm room. He had a key, all the Losers did, and Richie only fumbled for a moment finding the key with green paint on the grip before swinging Stan’s door open.

“... Stan?” Richie called, shit what if he wasn’t here - what if he _was_ dead? The worst timed joke in the history of Richie.

“Go away.” A pathetic voice called from the bundle of sheets on Stan’s bed. Good, okay, not dead.

Richie walked over to the lump, sitting gently on the bed beside Stan. Richie winced at the jilted groan from beneath the covers when the mattress shifted under him. His hand hovered over the lump, wary of making whatever this was worse, before finally rubbing across the cotton in a way he hoped was soothing.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Richie asked, voice soft - he was always soft for Stan.

“I… “ Stan began, _“Fuck,”_ he whined, Richie pressing firmer into the knobs of his spine as consolation.

“C’mon, babe, you can tell me. Who do I need to beat up?” Richie probably couldn’t win a fight with a baguette, but Stan giggled a little regardless and that was enough for him.

“No one, I - Jesus - you can’t laugh.” Stan begged, and God it was making Richie’s heart hurt.

“Never.” He promised.

“It… it’s stuck.”

“Uh, you may need to be more specific than that.” Richie said, brow rising even though Stan wouldn’t see it.

Stan would know, they were well versed in each other’s habits.

“The p-present.” Stan said, groaning as he moved again. “The stupid present is stuck and I don’t know what to do and it hurts and I didn’t know who to call and I can’t call Eddie I mean Jesus he’d die and then laugh at me and it _hurts please help me.”_

It took Richie a moment to figure out what the hell Stan just said - the words had poured out in a mumbled choked mess - and a moment longer to figure out what he meant.

Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

“Are you -?”

 _“Yes.”_ Stan whimpered.

The Losers had a gift exchange each year and Richie always aimed to give the most hilarious one. Bev and Mike were impossible to faze; but everyone else was fair game. He’d gotten lucky last month with sweet Stanley.

Stan had gone red so quickly Richie was almost worried through his cackles. The plug had been glass with swirls of blue through it. It was, admittedly, pricier than the standard gift limit - but Richie wanted to go all out on his favorite boy.

“It’s as wide as me,” Richie promised with a wink, “I measured it myself.”

Stan had thrown it at him and the bulb had left a _considerable_ bruise on Richie’s arm. He’d shoved it into Stan’s backpack, relishing the idea of it scaring him in class or maybe when he was alone. He didn’t _mean_ to make Stan squirm but - it was fun. Stan was fun.

Richie had assumed that the plug had been thrown away or smelted or _anything_ besides actually being used.

Okay. okayokayokay.

“Okay.” Good start, Tozier. Keep it together. Richie gripped the blanket, if he was going to help he’d need to see -

“Don’t look!” Stan keened from beneath his cocoon. Richie yanked his hand away immediately; the more upset Stan got the more he tensed. Tensing was the last thing he needed right now.

“I won’t look,” Richie answered, “I promise. Jesus, babe.”

The lump sank into the bed at Richie’s hand returning to Stan’s back. He resumed stroking along the tense spine, trying to figure out how to even begin to help.

“Have you tried just… pulling it out?” Richie asked cautiously.

“What do you think I’ve been doing the past hour?” Stan grumbled, voice thick with tears.

“An Hour? Fuck, Stan, I mean -” Richie stopped himself at Stan’s whimper. “I mean, you got it in… so it’s gotta come out, right?”

“I didn’t - fuck - I didn’t finger at all.” Stan confessed.

“Please don’t tell me you just shoved it in.”

Stan’s hiccup in response was answer enough.

“Shit. Okay,” Richie found the edge of the blanket, but instead of trying to remove it he let his hand slip beneath until he could grip Stan’s ankle. “I’m gonna help, but you gotta tell me if you don’t want me to.”

Stan just shook and kept silent. Richie let Stan’s leg guide his hand until he reached the top of his thigh. The smaller boy was slick with sweat and trembled under his light touch. He paused again, waiting for any rejection before he let his fingertips brush the heated glass between Stan’s cheeks.

“It’s okay,” Stan’s small cry didn’t seem to agree with him. “We’re all good here,” Richie mumbled, and let himself grip the flared base of the plug.

But Stan jerked away, whether to try and get it out or get Richie off he didn’t know. The lurch was stopped by Richies’ hold on the toy and caused a harsh tug against Stan’s rim. Stan’s choked shout quickly became a sob.

“Shhh, babe, it’s okay.” Richie let go of the toy and wrapped his arm around Stan’s stomach, pulling him back flush against Richie’s chest. The motion caused the blanket to come up, revealing Stan’s lower half, but the boy didn’t seem too concerned around his hiccuping cries.

Richie held Stan until his breathing returned to something close to normal. Let himself rub small circles under his ribs, hold Stan close trying to convey that he was here - that he loved him. Let his hold make up for all the ways his words fell short.

Stan’s chest eventually settled into gasps, heaving breaths of air amid the stifling blanket. Richie’s arm alone was prickling from the suffocating heat - there was no way Stan could even try to be calm in that. Richie hugged Stan closer and let his free hand pull the blanket up and away.

Stan instantly curled in on himself, “Richie -”

“It’s just me.” Richie agreed, “It’s just Richie. You don’t need to be scared, I’m not gonna laugh at you.”

Stan’s head popped out from the blanket; a kinked halo of golden curls framing his wet eyes and ruddy cheeks. Richie felt the air leave his lungs. God, he was beautiful.

Stan saw his gaze, wide eyed and open, and ducked his head with a whine. “Don’t _look.”_ He begged.

“I won’t,” Richie promised, “I won’t. Here, turn around for me.” Stan started to rotate on wobbly knees, small cries that cracked Richie’s heart whenever he jarred himself on the plug. Once Stan faced him, eyes down and lip between his teeth, Richie gripped his waist to bring him closer.

Richie expected resistance on that, but Stan almost threw himself into his arms. Sweaty curls tickled his chin as Stan sank against him, shuddering breaths puffing against his throat. Richie wrapped his arms around him immediately, stroking hands along jolting muscles.

“See? Can’t see a thing, Stanny. You’re too close.” Richie laughed, removing his glasses and pressing his face into Stan’s own neck. Stan seemed to melt a little more into him at the clatter of metal frames on his bed stand. Good, just as long as he stayed that way.

Richie let himself hold Stan a moment more - just settling into the way the fit together - before moving his hands down Stan’s spine. His hands didn’t rush, brushing swirls down Stan’s back, letting him know where he was moving before he got there.

Richie tried to pretend that it was only for Stan’s benefit, in a way it was - just about everything he did he did for Stan. But Richie also just wanted to feel him, wanted to sink into this moment where Stan needed him, _wanted_ him, even though he could have called anyone.

In a moment Richie would hurt Stan. It was inevitable and they both knew it. But, Christ, Richie jammed his nose deeper into the crook of Stan’s neck. He didn’t want to hurt his boy. But he would if Stan needed him to.

Stan had calmed, if only a bit, during Richie’s soft descent to the toy. Richie felt the breath stutter and stop all together against his collar when he finally reached the plug once more. He didn’t grab it this time, but let his fingers slip beneath the flat disc to touch Stan’s rim instead.

“Richie -”

“It’s okay,” Richie cooed, slowly pressing on the quivering muscle beneath his fingers. “It’s gonna be okay. Just breathe, I’m gonna make it okay.”

Richie’s free hand, which had settled across the small of Stan’s back, gripped him close for a moment before moving down as well. He kept his hand loose, dragging across Stan’s skin in an attempt to be open about what he was doing. Once his palm rested against the glass he let his fingers curl in to hold the edges of the disc once more.

Stan flinched again, but couldn’t jerk away; he was already flush to Richie. The boy still tried though, whimpering like a trapped animal. Richie pressed his forehead to Stan’s temple, unable to hold him in this position but desperate to comfort nonetheless.

“I’m not gonna yank it out,” Richie promised, feeling Stan’s jackrabbit heartbeat against his own. “Just relax, Stan. Just breathe.”

Stan’s nails were leaving small crescents his Richie’s back, but Richie wasn’t going to say a word about it. Richie could feel him trying to relax, to loosen, but each time Richie’s fingers pressed firm or the plug twisted he locked up all over again. The cycle seemed endless and Richie didn’t know how much more panic Stan could take.

Stan was going to keep working himself up, that was inevitable now, so Richie tried a new approach. Gripping the plug more firmly, he began to pull - not enough to yank or force, but enough to apply pressure. His fingers rubbed along Stan’s quivering rim as the smaller boy keened at the pull.

“Bear down, baby.” Richie mumbled, not allowing himself a moment to breathe when he could be trying to distract Stan from the growing intensity of the plug. “Relax your hole, it’s okay.”

He pulled again, Stan _was_ loosening but the process couldn’t be anything resembling pleasant.

“Richie,” Stan sobbed, “I can’t, _I can’t.”_

“You can, you’re doing so well,”

“I-I-It _hurts.”_ He begged. Fuck, Richie just wanted to hold him. Just hold him and kiss him and tell him it was going to be okay.

But that’s not what Stan needed.

“I know, I know,” Richie said, “I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon you just gotta relax.”

He felt Stan’s curls flick against his cheek as he shook his head, tears soaking into his shirt with each ragged breath. Richie tucked his chin into the crook of Stan’s neck, trying to hold him in any way he could.

“You can do this, you know how.” Richie shushed, trying to keep his voice steady despite the prickling in his own eyes.

“I _can’t,_ I can’t,” Stan insisted. “It’s t - _ah!_ \- too much, _please.”_

Richie relented for a moment, letting the plug slip all the way back inside. Stan’s breath hitched again, but instead of tensing he seemed to… shiver. Richie tapped the plug, angling it towards him and Stan huffed out a small _ah_ against him.

Oh. That could work.

Richie’s hands didn’t let up, rubbing along Stan’s rim as he started to ease the plug back and forth. Stan started to curl against him, trying to get his growing erection away from Richie’s shirt.

If Stan got embarrassed or upset he’d just tighten up all over again, or he’d send Richie away to try and deal with this on his own. Stan had no patience for his own problems; he grew frustrated with his own ‘cowardice’ and would rather hurt himself than ask for help.

Him calling Richie was a miracle in itself. Then again, Richie did seem to be the expert in Stan’s mind on this genre.

If Stan had wanted Richie, Stan was going to get the Richie he deserved.

“You’re so pretty like this.” Richie whispered, mouth against Stan’s ear, barely loud enough for himself to hear. Richie could almost _feel_ the heat deepening across Stan’s cheeks. The pink flush spreading down his neck and back from the blurred edges of Richie’s vision.

Richie pressed the plug against Stan’s prostate and kissed Stan’s neck as he whimpered in response.

“God, I know you’re in pain but you look so good.” Richie said, offering praise to the shaking boy in his lap. Every word of adoration loosened the knots in Stan’s spine. The plug no longer held like a vice but gently rubbing his prostate, loosening him slowly but surely to the intrusion.

“Imagine if you were prepped baby, how good this would feel.” God, Richie remembered how good. How Stan could cry from overstimulated pleasure and arch into Richie’s touch. How he was almost scared to -

“Can you touch yourself for me, Stan?” Richie asked.

Stan was quaking in his grip, fingers sporadically danced across Richie’s own hunched shoulders as he keened out a cry on a particularly well aimed twist of the plug.

“I can make you feel better if you do, baby.”

“I-I-” Stan choked, small weeping cries starting anew. Richie kissed his jaw as he shushed him, trying to keep him from working himself up further.

“You what, Stan?” Richie mumbled, “What’s wrong?”

Stan choked a wet laugh at that, and Richie guessed that was fair as he chuckled too. What _wasn’t_ wrong with this situation?

Richie had forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t even supposed to be here. Stan hadn’t really wanted him to see him like this.

“I’m scared.” Stan said, the admission fragile in Richie’s ear.

“You’d feel so good for me,” Richie promised, “I know it’s scary. But I’m gonna make it better, I promise. You’re my good boy.”

He hadn’t meant for that last bit to slip out. Stan wasn’t _his,_ he didn’t own him. But, God, something about this had already crossed a line fucking miles back.

Richie felt Stan release his shirt from one clenched fist and awaited his sentence. Stan would either bend or break. But, Stan’s shaking hand slid between their flush chests until an unsteady fist wrapped around his cock.

The wail that punched out of Stan was cracked and soft. Richie could feel his grip refusing to settle, unable to take the stimulation. Shit, Richie would do it himself if he could, would suck him down and make him see stars. But Stan’s remaining grip on his shirt was ironclad and Richie had promised not to look.

Instead he sped up his hands, working the plug more firmly against Stan’s prostate as he massaged along his sensitive rim.

“C’mon, baby,” Richie grunted into Stan’s ear, “Stroke for me. Nice and fast, just how you like it.”

Stan seemed to forgive the outing of past skeletons - that or he was simply too worked up to process it - as he followed Richie’s orders. Shout-like moans escaping his spit slick lips as he worked himself faster and faster. Richie matched pace with the plug, he could feel his rim flexing, clenching and releasing around the toy.

The widest point was against Stan’s rim now, and the boy was heaving on sobs at the stretch despite his quick fist. Richie kissed his cheek, keeping his mouth against flushed skin as he encouraged Stan on.

“Hold on, that’s it, that’s it,” Stan’s calves were spasming, and a shriek left him as Richie said, “Cum for me, baby.”

Richie tugged the last of the girth out, the tapered head quickly slipping away at the pop of the pressure releasing. Stan felt it, there was no way he hadn’t, but his orgasm left him panting against Richie’s chest. His fingers loose and jaw slack - Richie kissed his cheek one last time before his senses would return to tell Richie to leave.

They didn’t move for what felt like ages, Richie’s hands stroking along Stan’s shivering muscles as he eased him through his aftershocks. Eventually, Stan did speak.

“Thank you.”

It was slurred and half asleep - honest. Richie felt his heart clench, felt the promises on the tip of his tongue, confessions to offer like atonement to this boy.

He smiled instead.

“Next time you wanna feel full just call me,” Richie said with a wink, “I’ll work you up to it - you’ll be a champ.”

Stan slapped his chest with a tired laugh. Richie held him until he fell asleep.

He held him a little longer.

  


\-----

  


Despite Stan’s own reasoning, the sleeping bag was a _significantly_ tight spot.

The two boys were as flush to each other as humanly possible. Stan had silently insisted to himself that spooning would lead to an entire mess that Beverly’s new floors didn’t deserve. He ended up with his head resting on Richie’s collarbone, mussed curls undoubtedly tickling the taller boy’s cheeks. But, Richie didn’t voice a single complaint. Just wrapped his arms around Stan and hummed a tune Stan was too tired to place.

The apartment really was pretty; Beverly always had a skill for transformation. Cracked brick and drywall covered with tapestries and Bill’s paintings. Fairy lights along the windows to make up for the broken sconces. She could make anything damaged beautiful.

Stan felt the pull of sleep, knew he’d need to pass out soon to try and rest through the worst of the impending hangover, but he couldn’t stop looking at the fabrics. Softly lit from street lamps through gauze curtains; they were gorgeous. Stan was nothing short of captivated.

His hand was moving before he could think better of it, wanting to touch the pleated navy skirt in front of him. God, it looked so soft, it must feel amazing. The whispered drag across his thighs -

“What’re you doin’?”

Stan’s hand froze, looking up at Richie’s unfocused gaze. No aide of glasses to let him see Stan’s heating face in the low light.

“Nothing.”

Richie’s eyes squinted, trying to make out the shapes around him until he looked to where Stan’s hand still hovered. The small inhale and grin let Stan know he didn’t need his vision clear to figure out what was going on. He always did know Stan too well.

The arms around Stan tightened, what must have been a premeditated hold for whatever reaction his comment would bring because, “You’d look pretty in that.” Was _not_ what Stan was expecting.

He shoved his face into Richie’s neck with a little more force than necessary. The little _oof_ and chuckle wasn’t nearly satisfying enough retribution, but he wasn’t going to come from his hiding place now. The Colorado gas station had been a - a fluke, a joke. Richie wasn’t serious, he was playing with him. He always loved to play with him.

Richie knew he… _liked_ that word. He was weak for that word. But, he was also above Richie’s playing.

“I’m not a girl, Richie. Those are made for models. They look pr - they look _nice_ because they’re on mannequins.”

Richie’s laugh made Stan bristle, like Stan didn’t know what he was talking about. Stan opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but Richie must’ve felt his jaw shift against his throat because he quietly cut in first.

“Bet I’m right.”

And that… dammit. Stan couldn’t back down from that. Richie _wasn’t_ right but if he didn’t say anything back then that was the same as _yielding_ which meant he looked like he was _agreeing_ with him and he _wasn’t_ and _dammit, Richie._

It’s an old game. Stan knew it was, knew Richie as well as Richie knew him.

But Richie knew Stan hated to lose.

Stan could feel Richie’s hands moving from his waist down his back, slowly and light to the touch. He swallowed thickly as he tried to come up with a rebuttal, “I like fitted _pants,”_ He decided on. “It wouldn’t feel good. It’d be too loose.”

His argument was as flimsy as his tone.

“How ‘bout this,” Richie hummed against Stan’s temple, fingers gripping his ass firmly in a way that made Stan squeak. “If I can make you cum in two minutes… you gotta wear one.”

Stan barked a laugh, but it came out breathy and louder than he felt he could handle. Christ, they were on Bev’s floor and three of their friends weren’t even ten feet away.

“Jesus, are you nuts?”

“For me?”

And that made Stan pause. Made his breath and hips hitch just enough to feel Richie’s smile pressed against him as the taller boy fiddled with his phone.

“If you’re recording this I swear to God - “

“Shush, babe. I’ve got a bet to win.”

Stan wasn’t a teenager anymore. He wasn’t some kid who shoots off from a firm breeze anymore. He’s a twenty one year old man with a degree and _Jesus Christ_ -

They hadn’t fucked in nearly a year but Richie’s fingers knew his body like a map. One hand curled tightly around the head of his cock with quick tugs while the other pressed a firm thumb into his perineum, rubbing along the sensitive skin. Stan’s fingers shot out to grab his shirt, trying to lock his hips to keep from grinding against Richie. Richie who wouldn’t stop _fucking_ talking.

“Even you in that sweatshirt had me hard.”

Stan gasped, jamming his face further into Richie’s neck.

“Showing off those legs, Christ. And that skirt? You’d look so _pretty_ for me. God, baby, I’d wreck you.” Stan felt Richie’s chin dig into his forehead, nudging him to turn his head until Stan faced the skirt once more.

“Go on, baby boy,” Richie cooed with a harsh press of his thumb that had Stan quaking. “Touch it.”

Stan was helpless to do anything else, and keened as shaking fingers brushed the hem of the fabric. He bit into his lip to try and stifle his moan, but Richie heard him.

“Just imagine, sweetie.” Richie whispered in his ear as Stan began to arch involuntarily into his quick fist. “That brushing your cock while I fuck your greedy little hole _raw.”_

Stan saw white.

He came with a small shriek as he jammed his face into Richie’s neck once more. Hips thrusting sporadically in the tight confines of the sleeping bag and Richie kissed his crown and gentled him through his orgasm.

Richie kissed weird. He would mouth against Stan’s curls or neck, almost like a blend of kissing and biting but it hardly ever involved teeth. Just moving his lips against him in soft quick brushes as Stan calmed down from the shocks running through his nerves.

Stan just started to catch his breath when the high trill of _Come on Eileen_ started to blast from Richie’s phone. He snapped his head to look at the blinking 00:00 of the timer.

“God, you still cum so sweet for me.” Richie drawled into his curls with a soft smile. “Just like the day I first opened you up.”

Stan’s slapped hand over his mouth didn’t stop Richie’s laugh. Stan scowled at the lick to his palm and half considered just suffocating him when Eddie shouted from the pull out.

“Turn that the fuck _off!”_

Stan let his hand drop only after Richie kissed it with a wink, scrunching his brows and mouth in indignation. Dexys Midnight Runners suddenly cut off, leaving just Stan and Richie and the air between them.

Stan saw Richie stare at his lips. He dropped his head before he could dwell on it.

  


\-----

  


Stan’s lips wrapped around Richie’s cock is a sight Richie doesn’t think he can ever truly recover from.

Richie had learned over the months that Stan _loved_ sex. The flushed cheeks and stifled cries and rolling hips had become second nature in their friendship.

He did not, however, love asking for it. While Stan had grown into his explorations he still never asked outright. He would just start to sit a little closer or cling a little tighter - it was up to Richie to decipher the Uris code.

Stan was also remarkably shy in bed. He avoided eye contact at all costs and would duck his head into Richie’s neck any chance he got. Richie didn’t mind, Stan didn’t care if _he_ stared just as long as Stan didn’t see him doing it.

And stare Richie did, like right now with Stan on his knees under his desk.

Stan had texted Richie about help with a physics study guide, which was not just a deception - they _did_ have an exam next week. But, Stan had insisted Richie sit at his desk for “No distractions from the bed” and stood beside the rolling chair as he pointed out his questions.

The no distractions policy seemed a moot point with Stan bending at the waist over his desk to constantly fiddle with something. Richie would normally ignore it, Stan was fidgety about order any day of the week, but the arch of his back was impossible to miss.

Eventually, Richie asked if he wanted to sit; all that hunching was very unlike Stan’s pristine posture. Richie didn’t want to be a dick and presume what was happening if Stan did _just_ want help on the study guide.

So Stan accepted the offer, and plopped down right onto his tented jeans.

Richie hadn’t meant to get hard. But, fucks sake, Stan was wearing _Richie’s_ sweatshirt. It was Richie’s favorite, too big on him with thick stripes across. He couldn’t even be mad about it, the too-long cuffs swallowing Stan’s hands and loose neckline dipping open down the chest that did _not_ have a shirt underneath. It hardly looked like he had shorts on at all with the hem so low.

Stan stilled, smiled, and went down to his knees. Richie barely had time to inhale before his fly was tugged down and Stan’s wet mouth suckled on the head of his cock.

“Jesus,” Richie gasped, moving his hands to Stan’s curls on instinct. Stan hummed when his fingers scratched at his scalp. “Someone was needy, huh?”

Stan sucked harder, bobbing his head as Richie dug his grip into his curls. Richie tilted Stan’s head in his grip, watching as his dick pressed against cheek. Richie moved his thumb down to rub small circles against it, Stan’s tongue matching pace along his shaft.

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see Richie watching him. But Richie would have to be a goddamn idiot to not stare at how his dick sank between those lips. How Stan started to drool despite himself. How his hands gripped sporadically on Richie’s thighs. How he relaxed his jaw and let Richie move his head to a quickening pace.

“God,” Richie groaned, “You’re so fucking pretty, baby.” Stan moaned in response, the vibrations making Richie pull his head down harder.

Richie knew Stan loved when he talked. Could see how his eyes would darken and legs would quake from just the right words.

Richie heard the deadbolt of his door slide, heart in his throat while Stan had a dick in his.

“Hey,” Ben greeted, “Sorry, Bev just wanted me to -”

Ben and Richie stared at each other; a frankly concerning amount for someone in the middle of getting their dick sucked. Ben’s eyes slid to the knees under Richie’s desk, luckily the rest of Stan was hidden by a stack of records - Stan who _hadn’t stopped sucking his dick._

Ben clutched the tupperware to his chest.

“Are you getting a blowjob right now?”

“Right in front of your salad.” Richie agreed tightly.

“What the fuck, Richie?!” Ben wheezed, throwing the - huh, it actually was salad - to the bed before turning to leave.

“This is my room!” Richie countered, “You didn’t knock. Who doesn’t _knock?”_

“Who even -” The question was probably redundant; Ben had cut himself off. But, Richie panicked, he couldn’t say Stan. He couldn’t out Stan like that.

“My boyfriend.” Richie answered. The door clicked shut a moment later - lock thankfully sliding back into place.

Richie looked back down at Stan, who wasn’t bobbing so much as resting with Richie’s dick in his mouth. He was looking up at Richie, eyes wide and a little lost.

Shit, Richie had said boyfriend. Shit shit shit.

He licked his lips once, twice, before opening his mouth to explain - to backtrack. But Richie wasn’t good at explaining himself, better at shoving his foot further in his mouth.

But Stan’s tongue was moving again, trying to break this silence with action.

For once in his life, Richie knew all the right things to say.

He also knew what _not_ to say. What would ruin the tenuous hold he had on this boy.

_You look so beautiful when you smile,_

“You look so fucking pretty with my cock in you,”

_I wanna hold you like you’re mine,_

“I wanna fuck you ‘till you cry.”

_Fall asleep next to you,_

“Bend you over this desk,”

_I love you, Stanley._

“Take it all, baby boy.”

Richie came down Stan’s throat, the boy swallowing before sliding up Richie’s chest to sit in his lap. His eyes were wet from choking near the end - but, Stan loved to cry.

And Richie loved Stan.

He said as much with no sound, mouthing out his devotion into Stan’s curls where he couldn’t be caught as he pulled Stan’s weeping cock out of his shorts.

Stan clung to him as he twisted the crown, making promises he’d never admit into the skin of Stan’s neck as Stan moaned from what felt like loose kisses. In a way they were.

When Stan’s calves started to twitch Richie hefted him onto the desk. Stan squeaked at the sudden shift, but moaned into cupped palms as Richie swallowed him down. Thin thighs draped over Richie’s shoulders as he rubbed a thumb against Stan’s hole.

“Richie -!” Stan moaned, biting into his wrist as he quaked through his orgasm.

Richie kissed Stan’s inner thigh, still shivering under his lips, before rising with a grin.

“Did Stan the man get off a good one?” He asked with a poked tongue.

“Ohmygod.” Stan winced with a laugh. Stan had a great laugh, tittering and soft where Richie’s cackled and boomed.

Stan rested his forehead against Richie’s own. Even from his perch on the desk Richie wasn’t much lower when sitting upright. Richie rubbed his palms up and down Stan’s bare legs as he lowered them to rest against the wood. Stan’s fingers bumped his own, and Richie let their fingers rest beside each other - no reason to risk the moment with a dumb move.

They didn’t move, either of them. Breath slowly evening into synchroneity. Richie was nearly crosseyed trying to take in Stan’s face.

Stan’s eyes opened, fluttering lashes before settling on Richie’s wide eyes. A flush took his cheeks that Richie shouldn’t still be captivated by before he looked away.

His mouth opened and closed several times, choosing his words - more like struggling. Richie didn’t speak, didn’t want to break any confidence in the afterglow that was usually reserved for silence.

A scrim seemed to fall over his hazel eyes. Richie didn’t like that look on him. That was the look he had when he was seeing something he didn’t like.

At last Stan nods to the door, “Good cover.” He says simply, a small uneven smile on his lips.

It took Richie a bit to figure out what he meant. He felt he scrim fall over his soul once he did.

“Right.”

Because Stan would never date Richie.

  


\-----

  


Stan woke with Richie’s shirt in his mouth, flannel fibers stuck to his tongue. His arms tucked between their chests, legs locked around each other - it was a wonder the body heat didn’t wake him sooner.

His head lifted off of Richie’s chest, blinking sleep from his eyes as he looked around the room. Pizza boxes and bottles still littered the floor - lit faintly by the rising sun peaking through the window. Eddie and Bill were still in the pull out, from the skew of the blanket Bill looked like he had a jetpack on.

The shower was running to his right, Mike probably washing away the sin of last night. Stan probably need a shower too.

His pants, however, clung uncomfortably to his skin as he attempted to shift out of the bag. It took him a moment to remember the night - the _bet_ \- before and he groaned and dropped his head back against Richie’s chest. Jesus.

He came in under two minutes. From a fucking handjob.

The water shut off and Mike popped out a moment after Stan had shimmied halfway out of the bag. Mike’s presumably warm greeting halted on his tongue as he looked across Stan’s figure.

“Have some fun last night?” He asked, one brow rising.

Stan looked down to a dark stiff spot on his cream colored pants. Shit, these weren’t as thick as he remembered.

“Uh,” Stan began, pausing as he tried to think of any explanation besides the obvious one. “... Richie peed on me.”

“I heard about that,” Mike chuckled. “So you came on him in retaliation?”

“Oh my God, Mike.”

Mike raised his hands in surrender, “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Why don’t you shower?”

Stan, finally free of the Tozier strangle hold, padded quietly to the bathroom - shutting the door behind him without a word. He showered briskly, avoiding the stained pants and briefs that wore his shame like a medallion.

God, Richie had a hold on him. Nothing ever seemed too much to ask, no one seemed more secure - which was a fucking thought. Richie, constantly in control of his emotions keeping _Stan_ together. No one in the Losers would guess that. Richie didn’t even iron his shirts.

Stan stepped out of the shower, briskly rubbing his hair before suddenly stilling. He looked to the counter - uncovered by the clothes Stan did not remember to grab.

He tipped his head to the ceiling, asking for repentance and not to have to walk into the living room in nothing but a towel, but -

“Breakfast!”

No such luck.

Stan sighed and twisted the… _abnormally_ short towel around his hips - for someone who worked in fabrics, Bev was awfully fucking sparse on her towel capacity. Ruffling his hair for the last of the clinging droplets in his curls; stan opened the bathroom door.

“Whoa! Hey there, Stanny boy.” RIchie’s arms shot out to grab him, hands landing on Stan’s forearms to keep him from plowing into the sudden Richie in the doorway.

Stan swallowed hard, the proximity to the hands that had undone him unnerving as they rubbed along his arms. Richie didn’t seem to realize he was doing it; so used to touching and soothing Stan. The eyes slowly roaming down his damp chest felt more intimate than the calloused fingers tracing the gooseflesh across his skin.

“Damn, Stan my man, you couldn’t find a smaller towel?” Richie laughed, dipping in close to Stan’s face. “I think I saw a washcloth in there if you wanna go all out.”

“Shut up,” Stan said, face heating. “Breakfast is ready, didn’t you hear them?”

“I certainly did,” Richie agreed, “But I think I’ve found much more pressing issues to attend to.”

Stan’s fingers twitched as Richie let his fingertips drag softly down the length of his skin.

“Yeah, well, I’m getting clothes.”

“No need, babe.” Richie cut in, “You look cute like this, everyone would agree. It’s like a lil’ skirt.”

Stan attempted to tug the hem of the terrycloth magically lower, but felt the tuck of the waistline loosen. His hands snapped to the ends, trying to hold his dignity in tact as much as the towel would allow.

“Beep beep, RIchie.”

“Aw, c’mon. Mike?” Richie called.

“Hmm?” Came a quiet response from what Stan assumed was the table he’d very much like to be at with _pants_ on.

“Doesn’t Stan look cute?” Despite his line of questioning directed behind him - Richie’s eyes did not leave Stan’s own.

“He always does.” Mike called agreeably, laughing at what sounded like Bill’s response - too quiet to hear from the doorway.

“See? Always so cute.” Richie said, grabbing Stan’s waist and pulling him in closer. “Those legs? Cute cute cute!”

Stan could feel a retort on his tongue, some dig that would leave Richie laughing and dropping this - _heated_ gaze from him. Something to make Richie act more like this was the joke it sounded like.

Beverly came up behind Richie, hip checking him in what Stan assumed was for his benefit. All it did was knock Richie’s pelvis against his own and _shit_ \- okay. Erections were happening.

“Stop torturing your boy.” Bev said, grabbing Stan’s elbow to free him from the suddenly tightened grip beneath his ribs. Richie let up a moment later, ruffling Stan’s hair and making both him and Bev squawk at the spray of water from his curls.

“I’m not his boy.” Stan mumbled, if only to try and get a word in this sudden disaster of boners.

Richie laughed something booming from behind him, closing the door as he said, “That’s right, Miss Marsh. Never has been.”

The door clicked shut behind Stan. Beverly rolled her eyes to Stan with a wry smile before turning back to the kitchen. Stan re-tied the towel snug, but didn’t step to follow her.

Instead, Stan leaned back until his shoulder blades rested against the plywood. His fingers curled around the handle, but didn’t twist - unwilling to see if Richie had locked him out. If he’d be caught trying to go back to him again.

Instead he let his head thunk gently against the door once, twice, and waited for a soft, “Hmm?” From Richie.

A soft response, like he knew it’d be him. He was nothing short of boisterous with anyone else.

“Hey, Richie?”

“What’s up?” Stan jumped a bit at how close the voice was - not muffled through a shower curtain but as if Richie had his cheek to the door. Just like Stan. Like they were sharing a secret.

“I might have found a job.” Stan said, voice just loud enough to pass through the wood behind him.

Just as softly, “That’s awesome, but why not share at the table with all our fully dressed friends?”

“It’s in Atlanta.” Stan blurted. He bit his lip as if that could take it back, give him a second chance at saying it with more tact. “I saw the email when we were leaving Colorado,” He added quickly, trying to lighten the tension as thick as the steam crawling under the door. “Y’know, when you peed on me?”

It took too many moments for Richie to respond.

“Oh.”  

It sounded… manipulative now that he’d said it out loud. He’d taken the phone interview while Richie had been sleeping, had responding to all follow up questions about relocation while he’d filled the tank alone. It felt dirty, like he’d cheated Richie in a way.

Bill, Eddie, and Mike were going to New York. Beverly and Ben both settled down in Chicago. Richie was unpacked in Los Angeles and Stan -

Stan wouldn’t be right there anymore. If he took it. Richie would be alone.

Stan would be alone.

“Well, go on then!” Richie called, voice jarringly loud. “My sweet baby Stanley gonna be a Geowgia Peeeeach! What will the suitors say? It’s already a’givin’ me the vapors!” His voice had morphed into what Stan was sure was an attempt at Southern but it sounded jagged - forced in a way he no longer struggled with in a voice.

“I don’t - “ Stan began. He paused, took a breath, and tried again. “I don’t know if it’ll pan out. I haven’t been given a contract or anything. And that’s really far to look for an accountant; they may go with someone local instead. Especially since I’d have to ask for assistance in moving from the company. I don’t want to travel two thousand one hundred seventy four miles just to be sitting on my ass.”

“You’re nothing if not careful.” Richie agreed, accent gone. He didn’t even dig at Stan’s concerningly accurate mileage information; Stan had looked it up so many times he’d be surprised if he didn’t know how far he’d be. How many hours away from Ri - the Losers.

Stan’s fingers wouldn’t stop spasming around the brass knob, metal heating under his sweaty palms.

“So, would it - I mean… could I stay in Los Angeles with you?”

There wasn’t silence. The spray of the shower and clatter of dishes across the apartment didn’t leave a space in their conversation. But, Stan still felt like he was choking.

“Just for a few days, maybe a week at most,” He continued, words fighting to get out of his mouth to rectify his plea before Richie could respond. “I don’t wanna put you out but you _did_ pee on me.”

A small laugh echoed in Stan’s ear. “I get the feeling that will be held over my head for many moons.”

“Undoubtedly.” Stan smiled, “But, would that be okay? I’ll pay for my share while I’m there.”

“Sure thing, Stanley.” Richie said. No voice, no gimmick, no joke.

“... Okay.” Stan said.

“Okay.”

Stan lurched from the door. “Hurry up and shower, you’re wasting our Queen’s water.”

His hand shifted the knob as he moved, releasing it suddenly as it twisted with his grasp. Richie had left the door unlocked. Stan slapped his hand against the frame as a half assed dismissal.

Stan heard Richie’s laugh as he walked away - but it sounded heavier than before.

The bet was not mentioned over their waffles and eggs. Stan swallowed his disappointment with his orange juice. He had nothing to be disappointed about.

  


\-----

  


Normally a twenty first birthday was an egregious and mildly illegal affair among the Losers. Stan, being the baby, was to have the most intense christening into adulthood of them all.

Richie had been planning for weeks, each detail of a bar Stan wouldn’t shirk from to which diners had the best fries and milkshakes for 2 AM cravings. He was ready. He was going to give Stan the Man the night of his life.

“I can’t go out tonight.”

Stan was playing a significantly stronger role in cockblocking his own night than Richie had planned for.

“What?” Richie asked, still holding the handle of whiskey with a shoelace acting as a bow around the neck. “Why?”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Stan shrugged - fidgeting at his desk, “The year is almost over and it’s just… a lot has been piling up.”

Richie knew there was a lot of work, his own schedule had become disastrous between his job and the spring musical. But, this wasn’t some binge session or house party that could just be postponed; this was _Stan._

"But drinking is a birthday necessity."

"What ever happened to just a movie?" Stan grumbled, "Remember when a movie was enough for you?"

"Stanley, we were kicked out of the movie."

Stan smiled at that, "Oh, yeah."

“C’mon, man,” Richie said, “I - we planned a whole night for you. Put a tiara on ya and parade you around, shots, the whole nine yards.”

“You don’t even know what sport that references.”

“Boxing.” Richie answered smoothly, “And _you_ don’t know enough about sports to dispute it.”

“Well,” Stan said in a dry tone, “We _are_ gay.”

Richie laughed something loud at that, letting his arms wrap around Stan’s neck, reveling in the way he pressed his cheek against Richie’s own. Stan always leaned into his touch even if he complained while doing so.

“Did you want help with that?”

Stan whimpered at that. A shiver ran through Richie at how Stan’s neck tilted back to show the small moles speckled across it.

“Damn, Stanley, I meant statistics.”

“The last thing I want to look at are these numbers.” Stan bit.

That… wasn’t right. Stan never left work unfinished. His tone was sharp and quiet, lips turning down as he stared.

“… Are you okay?” Richie asked softly.

“I got a C.”

“Shit, on the midterm?” Stan had seemed so confident about it - or, at least, as confident as a boy nearing a breakdown every test could be.

“No. The quiz.” Stan whispered, voice hardly carrying in the empty room.

“Well damn, Stan.” Richie sighed with a chuckle, “That’s just a _quiz._ Nothing to cr - oh my God, you’re crying. Why are you crying?”

In a moment Richie was kneeling at his feet, hands waving in a way Stan would probably laugh at under any other circumstance. Richie’s eyes darted across his curled up form, trembling shoulders, fists rubbing furiously at the tears slipping down his face.

“I just -” Stan hiccuped, “I don’t know.”

“C’mere.”

Stan didn’t need further prompting. Richie nearly tipped over from how suddenly Stan collapsed into him, hiding his wet cheeks and trembling lip in Richie’s throat. Richie let his arms come around him, let him hold him without reservation. It took awhile for Stan to speak again.

“This is stupid.” Stan mumbled.

“Well… we _are_ gay.”

The weak laugh was enough for Richie. Anything to get Stan the man smiling.

“Can you…” Stan trailed off, “Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

Richie rubbed his nose against Stan’s temple, letting his lips brush his cheeks in a way he hoped wasn’t too obviously devoted.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Can you fuck me like you hate me?”

“That’s impossible.”

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Stan muttered, looking more humiliated than Richie had seen in ages. He tried to get out of Richie’s grip, but Richie held fast. He wasn’t going to let Stan suffer over his own fuck up. “Forget it.”

“Nonono, it was a joke!” It wasn't. Richie didn’t think a bone in his body could ever hate Stan. “Sorry, I just - what do you mean?”

Stan’s mouth formed around words in a fucking adorable fashion until he could settle on an answer.

“Harder?”

“Harder?” Richie echoed.

“I don’t want to think, Richie. I just want you to… make me not think.”

Richie’s fingers flexed on Stan’s waist; unsure if he should hang on or create space. “Uh, I mean, people usually talk this out, babe.”

“We’ve been fucking for years.” Stan countered, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” Richie agreed, mirroring Stan’s expression. “And you already cry _every_ time.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be harder.” Stan huffed, starting to lean in for a kiss.

It took more willpower than Richie thought he contained to lean back before their lips meant.

“Well, yeah. But I don’t wanna _hurt_ you.”

“I want that.” Stan hissed, nose scrunching at his own admission.

Richie might have died for a moment.

“Oh.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I want.” Stan said, words pouring as his face heated. Richie couldn’t comment - his own cheeks felt a little warm. “I need you to just _fuck_ me until I can’t walk or talk or think anymore. I don’t need some weekday bender at a bar I want to be bent in half -”

“Okay.”

Stan blinked, “Really?”

“Anything for you.” And shit that may have been too close to home - too honest - but Stan relaxed under his hands and Richie never liked to tell him less than the truth.

Stan surged forward again, and Richie moaned into the kiss. Their tongues clashed for a moment before Stan let himself melt into it. Fuck, he always was so sweet for Richie.

Richie scrambled for a moment, unwilling to part from Stan, before he got his feet steady under him to heft them both into the air.

Richie grinned at the muffled shriek from Stan. Richie slipped Stan’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking harshly before releasing the swollen skin.

“What’s wrong, baby boy?” Richie crooned, “I thought you wanted it rough?”

“Yeah,” Stan whimpered, “So when are you gonna get on it?”

“Oh, _darling,”_ Richie grinned something sharp, “We’re just getting started.”

In a reckless maneuver Richie dropped into a squat to grab for his bag. Stan kept his face tucked in the crook of Richie’s neck. Richie grabbed the small bottle he always carried, admittedly only because Eds’ face whenever he saw it was hilarious, and jammed it into his back pocket. His fingers gripped one last item in the bag before coming out of the squat.

He backed Stan into the wall, Stan moaning as his back hit the plaster. Richie huffed a laugh as Stan’s hand left his neck only to double check the locks. With a kiss to his curls, Richie placed his prize atop Stan’s head.

Stan came out of his hiding spot, looking up as if he could see the small twisted gold wire. It wasn’t technically a tiara - Bev was particular about her crown terminology - but it was delicate and sweet. A simple circle of wire with small triangles wrapped along to make points, small little flowers twisted with extra lengths where wire met. It almost glowed on Stan’s head, surrounded by his cherub curls.

Richie hadn’t expected him to look that angelic.

“Are you serious?” Stan asked, but Richie could see the way his eyes darkened. The way he bit his lip before thinking better of it.

Oh, Stanley. Sweet Stanley.

“Uh uh,” Richie tutted, snagging Stan’s wrist as he went to toss the crown away. “Birthday boy, remember? You gotta wear it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Never been more serious in my life,” Richie said, “Lock your ankles.”

Stan did so without hesitation.

“Good boy.”

Richie, confident Stan could hold himself up between the hooked legs and back against a wall, reached to tug Stan’s pants down. Stan’s hands gripped Richie’s neck as the fabric bunched just beneath his ass. Richie let himself grip Stan, hefting him more securely up the wall, but paused as the tips of his fingers brushed -

“Did you do what I think you did?” Richie asked, face giving way to awe.

“I… hoped you might come over.” Stan mumbled, looking anywhere but at Richie like he _hadn’t_ opened himself up for him. God, his hole was sloppy with lube.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” Richie groaned, “How many?”

“Two,” Stan confessed, “You knocked while I was still - _ah!”_

“Oh, pretty boy,” Richie sunk two fingers deep into Stan, curling immediately into his prostate, “You know that isn’t enough to take me.”

The grip was tight, Richie’s fingers weren’t much wider than Stan’s own - but they were longer. Richie began to fuck his fingers in quick, Stan had asked for hard and Richie would move heaven and earth for the birthday boy. Stan keened as Richie kissed him again, pulling Stan’s lip between his teeth, worrying the swelling flesh.

“Where do you want it?” Richie asked, lips brushing Stan’s as he spoke.

“My ass, preferably.” Stan quipped, but it came out with a breathy keen from Richie’s twisting fingers.

“Baby, if you can give me shit I’m not fucking you right.”

“Cl - _ah_ \- clearly.” Stan the man had the audacity to roll his eyes.

Richie barked a laugh.

“Alright,” He said easily, “I think the desk is good enough for a brat like you.”

Richie, keeping his fingers lodged in Stan, wrapped his free arm around Stan’s back to heft him off the wall. Stan shrieked at the motion, clinging to Richie, but was seated atop the desk as Richie slipped in a third finger.

Richie watched Stan’s chest arch up toward him as he curled his fingers. Stan opened his mouth, but all that came out was a whine.

“That’s better.”

The three fingers stretched a moment longer before Richie pulled them out. He tugged Stan’s hands and legs away; honestly a crime from how he whimpered at the separation - then again, Stan probably hadn’t realized he’d done it.

“Alright, baby,” Richie cooed into Stan’s ear before twisting the smaller boy suddenly onto his front, “Let’s see that greedy hole.”

Stan, chest flush to the wood, could hardly arch his spine. The thighs resting along Richie’s own quaked against him, he could hardly keep his toes brushing the floor beneath him.

Richie hooked his thumbs into Stan’s hole, spreading just enough to watch it twitch closed again. He tugged his zipper down, freeing his cock, before coating it in the lube he’d snagged. Stan’s head didn’t look back at him, but his breathing was steadying once more.

Richie leaned over him, stroking his unlubed hand along the nape of Stan’s neck as he lined his cock up.

He opened his mouth, whether to make a joke or say something too vulnerable he wasn’t sure, but just squeezed Stan’s neck instead. The small sigh in response was enough for him.

“Shhh,” Richie hummed as he slid in, not stopping until he was fully seated. “You can take it.”

Stan was shaking beneath him, hips trying to push back into the pressure for more but with no leverage to achieve it.

“Do you want more?” Richie asked innocently as he slid out slow, so slow, “Hm?”

“Richie -” Stan begged when only the tip was still inside.

“Good, that’s good,” Richie whispered, “You ready?”

Stan nodded so hard his curls blurred from the flurry of motion.

Richie shoved back in.

The pace quickly became something just short of violent. Slow, but harsh. Stan apparently gave up on trying to touch the floor beneath him as his ankles locked around Richie’s calves. Richie kissed the skin he could reach, trying to soothe even as he wrecked Stan. He couldn’t help it, really - it was _Stan._

On a particularly quick thrust, Stan’s wire crown teetered precariously to the side. Richie nearly stopped as Stan’s own hand shot up to hold it; fingers wrapping around twisted metal flowers to reposition it.

“Thought you hated it,” Richie chuckled.

“Y-you said to - _fuck_ \- keep it on.” Stan panted, face finally turned to look at Richie. The green of his eyes was hardly a ring round his blown pupils. Sweaty curls clung to his forehead and his cheeks were nearly as flushed as his lips.

God, he was _beautiful._

“What a good boy.” Richie mumbled, slowing to a deep grind inside Stan, keeping his hips flush against him as he rocked. Stan looked close despite nothing but the desk touching his dick.

“Please don’t fuck me like I’m good,” And, God, Stan must’ve been sinking into it if that came out without hesitation.

Richie rubbed his thumb along Stan’s neck, gentling him for a moment before slipping two fingers into his mouth.

“Of course, sweetie.” He promised, letting a bit of his affection bleed into his tone.

The fingers tugged sharply, pulling Stan’s head back as his cheek stretched around the digits. The squeak became a shriek as Richie thrust mercilessly into the tight heat.

Richie was close, they both were, but Stan was gonna cum first. Nothing better for a ‘bad boy’ than a little overstimulation.

“That’s it,” Richie said, hand slipping to grip Stan’s weeping cock. Stan sounded close to weeping himself. “Cum for me, baby boy. You can take it. You _wanna_ take it you pretty little _slut.”_

Stan came, scream pouring out of his stretched lips as he spasmed around Richie. Richie’s hands left his mouth and cock to snatch his wrists. He pressed them into the desk beside Stan’s head as he began to thrust without rhythm or tempo.

“God, you’re so pretty,” Richie spoke into his spine, “So fucking pretty, so perfect. God, I, I,”

Richie came before another word could spill.

Stan was whining, little cries slipping out as Richie gently pulled out of him.

“Are you okay? Was that okay?” Richie asked, rubbing firm hands across Stan’s back in an attempt to ground him.

“Uh huh,” Stan slurred, “That’ll do.”

Richie huffed a laugh, trying not to be _too_ noisy in Stan’s hypersensitive state. He rubbed his palm along Stan’s nape again, smiling as the boy melted into the desk.

“C’mon, babe,” Richie maneuvered Stan into his arms. “Don’t think you’re going out to party tonight.”

“If I can’t walk to class tomorrow, you have to carry me.” Stan said, smiling at Richie as the taller boy stripped his sweaty clothes away.

“Of course, dear.” Richie bowed, tugging the sheets up Stan’s chest. Stan’s hand shot out, gripping the bottom of his tee.

“Sleep here.”

Richie swallowed. That… was not a good idea. Couples did that. Richie only ever stayed if Stan fell asleep before he’d put him in bed; if he could pretend he’d passed out too. Fuck buddies didn’t stay the night.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Richie said, “Someone’s gotta go break it to the rest of the Losers that I broke your ass.”

“Get in this bed before I carry you, Tozier.”

Richie laughed a bit at that, but bit back whatever joke he had at the ready. Stan had looked so sleepy and content a moment ago. But, awareness was coming to his eyes; Richie was ruining another moment yet again.

Richie tugged his jeans off and slipped beneath the covers. Stan turned onto his side and Richie turned with him until they were spooning; a more gentle imitation of the position they’d had minutes before.

“G’night, Stan my man.” Richie mumbled into the baby hairs of Stan’s soft throat.

“Goodnight.”

  


\-----

  


The trip back to Los Angeles was smoother than Stan could’ve hoped for considering how tense the _bathroom door confessional_ had been. It wasn’t right to call it a confessional in his head; Stan hadn’t confessed anything. He’d laid out the facts like a reasonable person. He’d been offered a job, he needed a place to stay, Richie had a place and owed him a ‘fluid debt’ as Bill had called it.

“It’s l-luh-like a b-blood debt b-but kinkier.”

Stan had thrown his toast at him like a ninja star. The yelp from crust to the eye wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. Richie had chuckled, but his eyes stayed glued to his eggs and ketchup.

But the flight back had been tight and… okay. Stan held Richie’s hand when they took off without being prompted. He had a feeling Richie wouldn’t have asked and just let himself stew in his own panic; a thought that left Stan’s own gut twisted with the feeling of dread. Once they were in the air Richie had slumped into his podcasts and Stan pretended he wasn’t checking on Richie any time the plane went through the smallest bump.

Eventually Stan got up to use the restroom, “We use toilets when we travel, you heathen.” He joked to Richie. The laugh back didn’t have much breath behind it. Richie never let a joke die, let alone one involving him. Stan didn’t know how to deal with this - how to make Richie… _Richie_ again.

Richie would make fun of something. How the sink and the toilet were the same size and height level, how the lady in the row behind them seemed like she’d never _seen_ of touch screen, how Stan’s shirt looked like a dress -

Stan paused.

His reflection, smudged in the small plastic bathroom mirror, made him note just how big his shirt was. Stan’s height was all legs so his shirts tended to hang farther down his thighs. With the cut of the dress shirt the hem touched almost four inches down his thigh. If he squinted it almost… it almost looked pretty.

Ugh, fuck.

Stan scrubbed his hands through his curls, musing them into fluff as he tried to get the image out of his head. He peed as quick as possible, but couldn’t help but peek from under his lashes as he washed his hands.

Richie wouldn’t let him ignore it. Richie would tell him to look - tell him how cute he was for him. Stan would try to avoid it but Richie knew he liked it, knew everything about him, maybe he’d hold him by his hair to make sure he watched.

_Fuck._

Richie would laugh and coo at him and then pinch his cheeks when they got red. Richie would make him keep his hands on either side of the mirror so he’d have to watch as Richie fingered him open. He’d keep his shirt on and Richie would mouth at his neck while Stan keened from the slow slide into him.

They’d cum and Richie would make some mile high club joke and Stan would know that was his cue to go. They’d sit in their seats and Richie would fall asleep on his shoulder and they wouldn’t hold hands until the landing when Stan knew Richie really needed him.

Instead Stan zipped his fly and shuffled back to his chair. Richie winked at him as he buckled his seatbelt. Stan smiled back at him.

“So Stanny, did the mile high club accept your solo application?”

And there it was. Richie’s head dropped to his shoulder and Stan let his cheek rest against Richie’s temple. He tried not to rub against the soft hair before he drifted off.

He woke only to the sudden death grip on his hand that had slumped into Richie’s lap and the skid of the wheels touching the tarmac. Stan clutched back the moment he knew what was going on and didn’t let go until the seatbelt sign turned off.

By the time Richie was fumbling his key into the door Stan was nearly sleeping standing up. The apartment was just as they’d left it: small, full of boxes, and surprisingly cold. The draft of the old building left Stan colder than the streets outside.

The boys dropped their bags and Stan hardly had one shoes laces undone before Richie had toed off his own and flopped into bed. Stan snorted at that and went to the futon they’d nearly killed each other getting up the stairs the week before.

The futon was right where Stan had left it, but all the blankets were still packed away in boxes covered in Richie’s illegible scrawl.

Instead of writing something helpful like ‘dishes’ or ‘bathroom’ Richie had gone instead to embrace some form of code that he probably didn’t remember anymore.

‘Probably not rabbits’ and ‘Dead dove, do NOT eat’ were not solid indicators of whether or not a box had sheets. Stan dropped the box in frustration.

“Mrreh… Stanley.”

“Yes?”

“Stop being noisy,” Richie whined. “Sleep.”

“Where are the sheets for the futon?” Stan asked instead.

Richie’s hand poked out from the quilt. “Fuck the futon. Just… c’mere.”

Stan hesitated,

“Are you sure?”

“Christ, we just shared a sleeping bag I’m pretty sure was meant for children. You can handle a queen.” The hand began making a grabbing motion. Stan didn’t take it but it was a close thing.

“I-”

“Get in this bed before I carry you, Uris.”

Stan didn’t believe he would, Richie looked far too snuggled up and content to dream of moving now. But, his eyes looked more and more aware and Stan did not want to deal with a wide awake Richie when he was so close to passing out.

That was the only reason, Stan thought as he slipped into bed beside Richie. Just don’t want to deal with his antics. Just - there’s nothing here but two friends just going the fuck to sleep.

They didn’t spoon, that was a strictly after sex activity, but Stan watched as Richie indiscreetly curled closer to him. Stan half thought to make a comment - break whatever mood this was - before he realized he had done the same.

The room was cold. The room was cold and the sheets were still chilled and Richie was warm and he wasn’t reading into this _he wasn’t_ -

“G’night, Stan my man.”

Richie let his hand rest palm up between them. Stan shifted until his own laid beside it; pinkies barely grazing each other. As close as they could be without holding hands.

“Goodnight.”

Stan didn’t bother with the futon after that. Each night they curled a little closer; never touching but so _so_ close.

Stan had half assumed that a week in Los Angeles with one Richard Tozier would include way more sex, drugs, and misdemeanors than the lazy netflix and chinese food they curled up with each night. They drank plenty, and one night during some unnoteworthy horror movie Stan had found himself making out with Richie. The kisses were slow and lazy, tongues poking into each other’s mouths as their lips parted with no rush or intent.

The kissing had just been that, Stan didn’t feel the grind of a dick against his ass or an incessant grip at his clothes. It had been fun in a way he hardly associated with kissing, it had just been… sweet.

The days blurred into each other and Stan felt as if a knot that had been between his shoulder blades had eased. There was a vulnerability in him that did not see the light of day, only the light of Richie. The taller boy brought out a happiness in him; ease filling the hole where anxiety lived.

But, Stan was an idiot to think it could last. Richie had gone to the ‘mailroom’, a loving term for a small dirty alcove of the entrance with half the mailboxes bent or broken, and came back up with a sweet postcard from Mike and bills.

Packages tended to get delivered directly, but with a shoddy elevator Stan found himself compulsively checking the window for a UPS truck whenever a package was due that day. There was no guarantee they would bother to bring it up six flights.

Richie did a valiant and unsuccessful attempt at frisbeeing the postcard to Stan, who got off the futon to get it when the cardstock landed seven feet away, and tore into his mail.

“It was sweet, Stanny,” Richie laughed, “He even drew a sheep on the card, it looks a little more like a moldy bean but, y’know, effort counts.”

“Should’ve asked Bill to do it.” Stan agreed, reading over the small, neat scrawl of Hanlon’s visit to a cafe and how he and Bill surprised Eddie with a date.

“Yeah, but I bet he did it himself just so Bill would see it and tell him how cute it -” Richie cut off abruptly, Stan turned to look at him at the sudden silence. “... Jesus.”

“What?”

“Oh, uh, nothin’. Just -” Richie paused again. “Water bill is high.”

“Water bill?” Stan asked. “How are they already charging water bills?”

Richie looked at him with a raised brow. “They send ‘em at the first of the month, dear. Whether or not we’ve _been_ here a month.” He laughed. “I mean, we’ve been here since the nineteenth. So, it was coming up eventually.”

The nineteenth. Stan had been here for two weeks. Stan had been crashing on his couch and running up his water bill for two weeks.

“How bad is it?” Stan mumbled, brain firing panic before he could think better of it.

“Well, baths ain’t cheap my sweet bird.” Richie elbowed Stan as he flopped next to him, smile on his face. Richie’s grin fell when he made eye contact. “I mean - it’s not _bad,_ Stan. It’s just - it’s high. I knew it would be, don’t worry!”

“I -”

God, Stan hadn’t calculated this. The fucking accounting major didn’t plan his funds out - but the theatre performance with a minor in geology had his finances on lockdown.

He didn’t have a job out here, what the fuck was he _doing_ out here? Playing - playing boyfriend? To Richie? Walking around the streets of a city he had no job in pretending he didn’t want to hold this boy’s hand when Atlanta was ready to close a deal on another candidate because he was waiting for this trashmouth to want something he didn’t?

“Stan, it’s not -”

“I’m leaving Friday.”

Neither one of them were breathing. Richie’s eyes magnified impossibly wider behind his wire frames. Stan’s nails were nearly drawing blood from his palms.

“What?”

“I accepted the job. I’m leaving Friday. I’ll be out of your way.”

Lies, all of it. But he would take the job, they’d offered him a raise already thinking he’d been playing hard to get. He would leave Friday, he probably had just enough to get a plane ticket. Hell, he could probably get the firm to get one for him. This was fine. This was -

“Okay.” Richie said, pulling Stan from his meltdown. “If that’s what you wanna do. What time is the flight?”

Richie was smiling. He was always fucking smiling. Stan was finally out of his hair - of course he’d be happy. This stupidly obvious lovesick loser who was practically squatting in his apartment was finally getting out.

“I… I don’t remember.” Stan mumbled. “I’ll look it up.”

“I can drive you to the airport if you want?”

God. Make sure Stan was finally gone. No more late night fucks and morning blowjobs. His lay with too much baggage would finally get gone.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got it.”

Stan stood up and left the apartment before he could look at Richie’s over bright smile a fucking second longer.

He slept on the futon that night. It was a lot colder. Stan blamed it on the windows not being sealed properly and kept his fingers gripped on the sheets so it didn’t feel like there wasn’t a hand ghosting against his own.

Richie didn’t say anything. Stan slept there the next night too. The days felt simultaneously too fast and too slow. The air of contentment and humor had been scooped out for a jilted tension that neither boy would look in the eye. The days felt too short - his time left with Richie was slipping through his fingers of his own idiotic volition.

And the nights, God, they never ended. Just laying still as stone in the cold alone. Listening to the soft breath of Richie pretending to sleep too. Stan didn’t know if he wanted Friday to hurry up or never show.

But, it did show. Time didn’t slow for anyone - let alone Stanley Uris. He had a 1:15 flight out of LAX to Atlanta where a car would be waiting to take him to a company provided apartment. It was everything his parents ever hoped; a stable, successful, happy Stanley.

Well, at least he’d get two out of three. Better than his normal record.

Stan folded up the sheets and quilt of the futon, redoing it four times before he felt the tears rising to his eyes in frustration and let the fabric drop. He only straightened one corner before admitting defeat and going to the kitchen alcove. There was nowhere to technically hide beyond the bathroom but furniture and half walls made solid shields for avoiding conversation.

Stan didn’t think it was possible to feel this lonely in such close quarters - but Richie always defied expectations.

Said Trashmouth was sitting at the stacked cardboard and stools Stan had made a breakfast nook. Stan’s plate had a barely recognizable veggie omelette while Richie’s was an alarmingly high pile of bacon. Stan couldn’t hold his snort in as Richie shoved another piece into his mouth.

“I can’t believe I’m going to witness your death.” Stan said, nodding at the plate of grease and pork.

“I know right? Shoulda been a nutrition minor.” Richie agreed, smiling something genuine for the first time in days. “Maybe I’d know better.”

“As if you’d use it any more than geology - didn’t you just do that on a dare?” Stan asked, thirsting for this connection.

“A challenge.” Richie corrected. “But I always prove Eddie wrong on its real world applications.”

“Really.” His tone was so dry Stan couldn’t pretend it was a question.

“Really, really.” Richie laughed, eating another strip. “At Bev’s party I informed Eds that the stones around that orchid were, in fact, rocks.”

“Amazing.”

“Yeah I thought he was gonna pop a blood vessel.” Richie’s grin was soft and easy, and could feel his heart aching from how much he missed this - the simple banter and comfort.

“How did they even give you a degree?” Stan asked, finally eating his omelette - no longer worried that the conversation would die if he wasn’t ready.

“I was really good at _acting_ like a good student.” Richie winked.

“Ohmygod.”

“There he is.” Richie mumbled, eyes still on Stan.

“What?” Stan asked around a mouthful of egg and peppers.

“Nothing.” Richie cut in quickly, shaking his hair out a bit as if to reorient himself. “You, uh, you gotta leave soon right?”

There it was. The cloud settled over the two again, heavier than it’d ever been.

Stan swallowed once, twice, before nodding.

“Yeah, I’m going to call an uber soon. I’ll just -”

“Stan -”

The apartment buzzed. Richie went to the peeled paint door to press the buzzer.

“Yeah?” Richie asked.

“Uh, Mr. Uris?” The crackling voice responded.

Richie had called an uber, or a lyft - he insisted they were cleaner, but either way he’d called one. He was sending Stan away. Stan swallowed hard, an unwanted lump forming in his throat.

“Uhh.” Was all Richie could muster, looking at Stan as he held the button to open the gate. Well that was a cue.

This was fine. It was fine. Ripping the bandaid. They’d said goodbye to all the Losers after the party - this was just the same. There was no reason for Richie to care more if Stan was leaving. That’d be stupid of Stan to expect anything different.

“I’ll pay you back for the fee,” Stan rushed, grabbing his bag from beside the stupid fucking futon. “Or you could just change the card information to mine.” Stan grabbed his wallet from the armrest, but his hands shook. His fingers scrambled at the edge of his debit card before a choked breath made him drop the folded leather all together.

“Stan?”

Stan kept his head down, kinked halo of curls hiding his ruddying cheeks and dampening eyes. He picked up his wallet and shoved it into his - fuck - his fucking sleep pants. Stan was just standing here in a sweater and fleece pajamas and about to cry like a dumbass.

“I - I’ll venmo it to you.” Stan wheezed, voice dangerously close to cracking as he white knuckled his bag and jammed on his shoes. “Or paypal, direct deposit, mobiletransfer _whateveryouwantworks_.”

Stan’s words were becoming unintelligible but he couldn’t risk taking a breath and letting any more of his soul out for Richie to step on.

“Jesus, Stan, what’re you -?”

“Stop.” Stan begged, voice finally breaking. The tears were held back out of the last strands of his resilience. “It’s okay. Bye.”

No hug. No eye contact. No hand holding. Stan wasn’t anything that warranted that. That was okay.

That could be okay.

Stan swung the door open before he could let himself regret not holding this Trashmouth one last time in this bubble they’d made for themselves.

“Hi - _Shit!”_

Stan half stumbled into the man in their - in Richie’s, not his - doorway. His brown eyes huge as he looked at Stan’s red face. His brown uniform unmistakeable.

His uber driver was a UPS employee. Those - they didn’t even have seat belts. Or seats.

Stan burst into tears.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” The UPS man - David, his name tag supplied - mumbled to Richie who was tugging Stan out of the man’s direct gaze. “Is there a Stanley Uris here?”

Richie gentled Stan to sit on the bed and pulled the duffel from his grip to rest out of Stan’s eye line. He pet through his curls once, almost on instinct, before turning to answer David.

“Yep, yep, that’s him.” Richie rambled rushing back to the door, “Don’t worry, we’re all good. It’s not - Stan what even?”

Stan just cried a little harder.

“Dude, is he good?” David, bless his soul, asked as Richie grabbed the box in his hands.

“Yessir, just a Level Three Uris Breakdown. I’m specially trained - we’ve got it.” Richie did something that was probably a salute in some country, “Godspeed, good Sir. I’ve got a hebrew to fix.”

By the time Richie plopped down next to him Stan had regained some semblance of composure in place of all his lost dignity.

“There’s not a Uris Breakdown chart.” Stan sniffled with a pout.

“It’s color coded,” Richie said, “Specially designed to deal with cute boys who have a tendency to upset themselves.”

Stan snorted, “Green, yellow, red?”

“Hell no, those are sex colors. Can’t get turned on when comforting my boy.” Richie gasped, hand to his chest at the apparent ludicrousy of Stan’s assumption.

Stan paused at the ‘ _my_ boy’, but… did not correct him.

“You know those are also street light colors, right?”

“I’m always horny at intersections.” Richie sighed, “It’s a curse.”

“Ohmygod.”

“There he is.” Richie cupped Stan’s cheek. “Do you want to explain why you sobbed at the sight of David? He’s gonna get a complex now.”

“He is not.” Stan groaned.

“My God, he’s probably on the phone with his mom right now. ‘Mom, am I ugly?’” Richie’s voice raised to a nasally feminine tone, “‘Oh, David, we couldn’t tell you’!”

“Stop, oh my God.” Stan laughed despite himself, “Poor David.”

“RIP,” Richie’s solemn tone didn’t match his nervous smile. “But, what happened?”

“I thought -” Stan began, but dropped his eyes from Richie’s gaze. “Forget it.”

“No, don’t do that.” he pleaded, “C’mon, Stan my Man, talk to me?”

“I thought it was an uber.” Stan mumbled.

“Why would y -” Richie’s furrowed brows dipped into something too loving to be pity. “Oh, Stan. C’mere.” Stan was pulled into a tight hug, the kind where his cheek could rest on Richie’s shoulder and his face could hide. The kind Richie knew he needed. “I’d never call an uber on you. Lyft or die in this house.”

Stan laughed at that despite himself.

“And I’d never call you one period.” Richie said, “I’d - here.”

He slipped the box between their chests, Stan grabbing the parcel before Richie pulled away. Stan tried to not let himself miss the warmth of his throat.

“What is it?”

“It’s not my name on the box, babe.” Richie said, sitting back on his heels in front of Stan. The hug, while wonderful, had forced the taller boy to reposition himself - always putting Stan first. “You really played amazon prime roulette with that delivery time.”

Stan hadn’t ordered anything. The box wasn’t amazon anyway; the package wrapped in thick brown paper with a loose scrawl of _BM_ stamped across the facing. There was no return address but Stan knew that logo.

Beverly Marsh - Bill had designed it for her months ago.

Stan pulled the wrapping apart, careful not to rip the paper but peel the tape away. The cardboard was simple and pristine, a muted matte teal with a deep burgundy ribbon across it. Tucked beneath the ribbon was a note, soft looping scrawl - handwritten.

_Have fun._

No way. No fucking way.

Stan slipped the lid off with suddenly trembling fingers. Methodically pulling the tissue paper aside until soft folded cloth stared at him. Soft, navy blue, pleated cloth.

Stan lifted it out of the box like it was something fragile. The fabric opened as it rose, unfolding to reveal a short pleated skirt.

“Are you gonna give me a show, sweet boy?”

Stan decidedly did _not_ shriek as he yanked the skirt to his chest, like he could hide it from Richie who was two feet directly in front of him.

“I -”

“ _I_ think you gotta own up to your 109 second beat down, baby.”

“You did not keep track that well.” Stan quipped back on instinct - relying on sarcasm in this sudden change of events.

“I really wanted to measure my skill and taking you apart.” Richie grinned with a wink, but the look softened as he continued, “Gotta say, I was surprised. I figured I’d need to backtrack or find a loophole to win... but, no.” Richie hand’s gripped Stan’s calves, slowly sliding up. “You responded so well for me.”

“Richie -”

“Just like you always do. So good for me, the best.”

Stan’s fingers clenched and unclenched sporadically around the fabric in his hands. He looked at Richie; calm, confident Richie who never had to question what he did because he just _did it._ Stan wasn’t brave like that. God, he felt sixteen all over again; shaking like a fucking leaf in front of this unbreakable person. He felt like he could cry. Just like he always did.

Stan watched Richie tip forward onto his knees, chests inches apart. His hands came up to cup over Stan’s own - trembling around the skirt. Or maybe Richie’s were trembling.

“Stan, I gotta tell you something.”

  


\-----

  


Stanley Uris had been breaking Richie’s heart since he was sixteen. Splintering it into shards that Richie couldn’t pretend to be able to back together.

Stan was Richie’s first too. No one would believe him if he said so - Richie had developed this sort of baffling image of being a _player,_ as Bill called it. Well, Big Bill sounded more like _p-pl-p-player;_ but the point still stood.

Richie supposed it was sort of his own fault. Normally a tall tale came with an equally overzealous explanation. Had Richie been skiing? Sure, he’d also kicked the shit out of a bear when he got lost.

Richie was a storyteller, of course.

But, when the Losers had been on the topic of dicking one fateful lunch period, Bill had turned to Richie with a quirked brow and smile and, “Y-you’ve had sex, right?”

Richie grinned with a sweep across the table at the laughs at the notion.

“Yep,” Richie began, but when his eyes landed on Stanley fucking Uris he choked. Stan, who was sitting with his orange juice and chicken salad and wide open eyes. Stan was staring - he wasn’t laughing. Richie could feel the heat on his cheeks rise, ducking his head to avoid the soft parted cupid bow lips that just needed to be _kissed._

Richie would kiss him, if he asked. Richie would probably _kill_ for him.

“Seriously?” Eddie squawked.

“Yeah,” Richie agreed easily.

Richie had forgotten what they’d been talking about. Too distracted by the way Stan’s throat bobbed when he suddenly busied himself with his juice.

Richie’d known for a little while now that he was maybe in love with Stan. The dork would just smile or giggle in that way that he did and Richie’s heart would threaten to crack through his ribs just to offer it to him.

Richie would never _tell_ him that, of course. Stan treated everything Richie said like a joke. Which, admittedly, was probably on Richie; a boy who cried wolf seven too many times. Pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair and kissing his nose like - well, he didn’t do that with _any_ of the others. He didn’t.

But Richie could get down on one knee and Stan would think he was fucking with him.

And one thing Stan couldn’t bear would to be the butt of a joke.

So Richie bit his tongue.

The days at the quarry continued as they always did, Richie stared at the sun peaking through the trees until his eyes hurt rather than be caught looking at how the water dripped down Stan’s chest. He didn’t want to be caught - didn’t want to break their circle with feelings that weren’t allowed.

This wasn’t Ben pining after Bev; this was… this wouldn’t work.

So Richie had been a little surprised when Stan half climbed half fell through his bedroom window. Richie lived on the second story.

“Uh,” Richie said, mountain dew halfway to his lips, “What’s up?”

Stan always called before he came over. Didn’t like to intrude or travel only to find an empty house. He didn’t even _text,_ the madman. Richie set the soda down, spinning in his chair to face the panting boy fully.

This wasn’t normal, something was up.

“Let’s have sex.”

Something was very much up. It may have been Richie’s dick.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Sex. Now. Let’s go.”

“... I’m sorry, _what?”_ Richie repeated.

Richie could see the confident demeanor deflating out of Stan's puffed chest with every question.

"C'mon, Richie," Stan finally whined, hiding his face in his hands. "Don't make this weird."

"I'm sorry, I've just had a tiny jewish boy scale up my parent's home to break into my room and demand sex."

"... I climbed the tree."

"How birdlike of you"

"Shut up, Richie. Just -" Stan seemed to be looking for the words to really seal the deal on this seduction, "Dick me down?"

"Oh my _God_." Richie wheezed

“Stop laughing!” Stan demanded, he looked near hysterical. “You say that all the time.”

“When have I ever not been hit right after saying it?”

Richie contained his laughter when he saw the look in Stan’s eyes. It was nervous, vulnerable, waiting to be rejected.

Holy shit. He was serious.

"I just, I want to have sex."

"Stan, you don't have to rush shit like that."

"I trust you."

Richie didn’t know what to say to that. He could feel his heart swelling in his chest. Stan _trusted_ him, he barely trusted anyone. He was always one step behind, one foot out the door. But, with Richie? Maybe Richie wasn't so far off with these feelings, maybe this shit wasn't just him -

"I mean," Stan rushed, snapping Richie out of his thoughts, "You've done it before. You're the - the sex one of us. So, it's the smartest move."

Richie heart flew from his chest to this throat. An unwelcome lump settling where his windpipe should be.

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

"Is... is that okay?" Stan asked, tugging at the edges of his shirt and _fuck_ Richie couldn't let him stand there scared like that. Scared of Richie's judgment, of his rejection, of himself.

Richie swallowed his heart and smiled instead.

"Anything for you."

Richie tried to be gentle with Stan, even when Stan kept pushing for more - faster, it's fine, faster.

Maybe Stan had been embarrassed. It was a vulnerable position to be in, Richie was nearly shaking himself. He tried not to think about how Stan was only here because of experience Richie didn't have. Tried to not let the bitter taste of how Stan would probably prefer Mike or Bill or Ben or _anyone else_ but Richie was the only _smart_ move linger on his tongue. Stan was here now, even if he didn't want Richie. Even if this wasn't special like how Richie had imagined it'd be.

Richie let it be special in his heart.

The first finger couldn't even press against Stan's rim without his whole body locking up. He was hard but looked so fucking nervous. Stan’s hands covered his face like a child, breath stuttering out of his chest as he waited. This is why he'd wanted - asked for - Richie. Richie was supposed to know how to deal with this, how to help him.

Richie didn't know shit except -

"You look so pretty right now."

Award for shittiest sex talk goes to one Richard Wentworth Tozier. What the fuck. Who says that?

Stan's breath caught in his throat and Richie's eyes widened at the small moan he released.

_Oh._

"You do," Richie continued. He wasn't brave enough to try moving Stan's hands from covering his face, but he let his forehead knock against Stan's knuckles. "You're the prettiest boy in the world, babe."

"Richie," Stan pleaded, muffled voice reedy as his flush crawled down his neck.

Richie began to press his finger in, feeling the muscle relaxing the more he spoke.

"That's it," Richie prayed he didn't sound like a shitty porno, "You're doing so well."

They stayed like that for awhile. Richie rambling against the backs of Stan’s hands as Stan tried to bite back any noises. Richie let his middle finger rest against Stan’s rim, and _felt_ Stan’s moan as it vibrated through his hands against Richie’s face.

“Do you want it?” Richie asked, trying to keep his voice uncharacteristically quiet in this small moment. Stan’s nod knocked against his forehead. Richie bit back his giggle and started to ease in the next digit.

Stan locked up around him, a tremor running against Richie’s body as he quaked.

“Stan,” Richie begged, needing to see his face, needing to know he was okay.

Stan’s hands shot away, their foreheads knocked momentarily as Richie felt Stan’s lips slam into his own. Richie kissed back, letting his free hand cradle Stan’s face like he’d seen in movies. Stan’s sweaty palms gripped Richie’s shoulders, holding him tight like he was scared Richie would move away. Like that would _ever_ fucking happen.

Richie figured Stan was kissing him to hide; Richie couldn’t look at him while kissing him. But, Richie didn’t really mind. Stan’s lips were as soft as he’d imagined.

When Stan relaxed enough that Richie didn’t think his fingers were going to break he began to move them. So slow he was hardly convinced they moved at all until he knocked something that made Stan keen into his mouth.

Splitting every fibre of his being between kissing Stan and rubbing his prostate was not an easy feat. But Richie was nothing if not resilient.

Stan still winced a bit if Richie twisted too quick or wide. He tried to be careful, but after several long minutes Stan broke the kiss to hide in his neck.

Stan had done that for years, long before whatever was happening now. Richie was perfect face hiding height. Any time the itch in Stan got too bad or Bowers got too close Stan would tuck his nose into Richie’s collar and just… breathe. Richie would tug his curls to watch them spring back and ramble about anything until Stan laughed.

This position, with Stan’s curls tickling his cheek, was somehow more intimate than the kissing could have ever been.

"You can just - just put it in." Stan stumbled over his words, nearly biting through his lip as his hands twitched on Richie's shoulders.

"You're not ready yet," Richie said, that much he knew at least. Two fingers wasn't nearly enough, especially if he was still twinging like he was.

"It's fine,"

"Stan - "

"It's supposed to hurt," Stan blurted out, eyes squeezing shut and _fuck_ that's why he looked so scared. "Everyone says so. Gays take it up the ass and it hurts but they like it."

"Who the fuck told you that?"

Richie had a pretty good idea by how Stan's eyes slid away from his.

"I won't hurt you." Richie swore, stilling his fingers in Stan to make sure he heard his admission. "I would never."

Richie watched the tears well in Stan's eyes, horrified he'd made it worse, before Stan's arms shot around his neck. He held Richie close, and Richie let him.

"Me neither," Stan mumbled.

"What?"

"I will never hurt you." He said it with a giggle, like it was funny. And in a way it was; Richie wasn't the one on his back.

Richie felt his own tears well. Stan had done nothing but hurt him since he'd climbed into his room.

"Course not." Richie agreed, “Stan my man loves me too much.”

 _And I love you,_ Richie thought, _God, I think I really love you._

Richie tried not to let the thoughts form, but he could feel the admission forming in his throat.

He kissed Stan’s neck instead, let the words form around his teeth and tongue and lips and be buried alive in the sweaty skin of Stan’s neck.

By the time Richie decided Stan was ready they were both red from exertion. Stan had whined out a long _Richie_ as he slid in. Richie had kissed more confessions into his neck between pleaded offerings of _Relax, it’s okay, it’s okay_ into his ear.

He’d held him through the stretch neither was totally ready for. Stroked his hair until Stan began to rock his hips of his own volition.

The sex wasn’t mind blowing. They were both virgins. Teenagers. Kids in love.

At least one of them was. Fuck.

Stan had cum first, Richie would be _damned_ if his fake sexual prowess was brought into question by being a two pump chump. His eyes had dampened as the overstimulation built from Richie’s final thrusts. Richie thought he almost _liked_ it from how he’d whimpered as his cock twitched.

Richie had to cut off any hope of seeing it again. This was a one time deal.

Stan had fallen asleep while Richie wiped him down. Richie almost figured he should dip except this was _his_ room.

What was the etiquette for a Losers with benefits loss of virginity shebang? Did he make Stan leave? Did he make Stan breakfast? Did he sleep in the guest room?

The taller boy slipped into the covers beside Stan before he could let himself freak out further. They’d shared his bed dozens of times, they’d even shared a _sleeping bag_ as kids on Bill’s floor. Stan had whined the whole time - said he’d never do that again. Richie had hoped he would before he’d known how fucking gone he was for Stan.

Richie had held him until he woke up.

Richie had tried to hold him him when he stiffened.

Richie had let him go as he panicked.

Richie had reached for him, just for a moment, as Stan called his dad.

“Hi, dad,” Stan wasn’t looking at him, “I’m sorry I just… Richie’s house… Yeah, we just fell asleep… Nothing, we didn’t do anything.”

Stan peaked over his shoulder. Richie just smiled.

“Okay, okay… Bye. Love you too.” Stan hung up, and turned to Richie.

Neither said anything. Both looking like they were waiting on the other.

Richie didn’t trust himself to speak first; too afraid of what his damning mouth could do.

“I, uh,” Stan finally began, “I gotta go. Dad needs help at the temple. I was supposed to be home, I just -”

Richie spared him, “No problem, babe! You ever want a second round on the _Tozier Express_ you lemme know.” He finished with a salacious wink and too toothy grin. A flawless performance.

Stan snorted even as his cheeks pinked, “Right… See ya.”

“Feel free to use a door this time.”

“You’re such an ass."

Richie’s smile didn’t move until the front door clicked shut.

  


\-----

  


Sometimes Stan found it easy to pretend Richie loved him. He’d always been greedy; he wanted Richie to fuck him and he’d got it in highschool and countless times in college. But he wanted Richie’s love too.

Moments like this felt like love. Like a love beyond the other Losers. Like how Bill looked at Eddie and Mike and how Beverly looked at Ben and like maybe the Jew and the Trashmouth didn’t have to be alone at the end of it all.

Richie kneeling at his feet and cradling his hands as he inhaled like he could say something, something like

_I love you_

“C’mon, up.” Richie said instead.

But, it still felt like love. How Richie’s hands didn’t leave him as they slid to his elbows to raise them both to standing. How he let his fingertips trail back to Stan’s creaking knuckles and loosened his grip one finger at a time. How he finally freed the skirt from his hands and draped it over one shoulder before reaching for Stan again.

Richie slowly undid Stan’s belt and jeans; moving slow as molasses, giving Stan plenty of time to move. Stan hardly dared to breathe. He watched, unable to speak, as Richie knelt once more - lowering himself along with Stan's jeans.

Stan’s hands found Richie’s shoulders, knuckling his shirt as he stepped out of the denim. He felt his toes and shoulders curl - horribly vulnerable despite how tame the image itself was comparatively.

Richie folded the jeans quickly and set them aside before grabbing the skirt. He took the waistband and held it out, pooled at Stan’s feet. Stan met his eyes as Richie looked up, helpless to the pull the boy had over him. But, Richie didn’t say a word. Stan had to take that step on his own.

But it wasn’t on his own, not really. Richie let Stan cling to him as he shakily lowered each foot into the circle of sateen.

Richie was never one to hold back praise and Stan giggled when the boy at his feet placed a quick kiss to the sensitive skin behind his knee. Richie came back up, and any other time Stan could bet money on some sort of _Tozier Express_ joke but this was too intimate to chance it. Richie seemed to hardly be _breathing,_ let alone making jokes.

When Richie is finally back to his full height only Stan’s wild curls could reach his chin. Their chests brushed as they breathed, Stan’s hands holding him close, as if the boy had ever moved away from him in his life. The sound of the zipper rising is deafening. Richie’s thumb presses into his waist as the button is slipped in.

The boy he never deserved dressing him in the skirt he never allowed.

Stan stopped breathing at some point, waiting for Richie to make it a joke. To break the tension and smile and laugh and shelter Stan’s heart away.

Richie does smile. But, it’s not like the grins Stan knew. This was soft, small, almost unbelieving as he looked at Stan. Stan didn’t know what to do with that.

“You are so beautiful.” No swearing or exclamation or _anything_ for Stan to doubt.

Stan melted into Richie, unable to support his own weight under the unadulterated honesty in Richie’s voice. Might as well match it with his own.

“Just for you.” The words were less than a whisper, Stan half worried half hoped Richie hadn’t heard him at all.

Richie inhaled like he’s fighting tears into Stan’s crown. Stan tilted his head up, to say it again, to be a little braver.

Richie kissed him instead.

Stan hoped the way he kissed back was reassurance enough.

They didn’t break away from each other for even a moment as the minutes ticked on. They hadn’t kissed like this since they were… God, since the beginning. Stan had missed it. He missed it so much.

Time blurred as he let his senses just become the swish of the skirt on his thighs and the calloused fingertips and soft, chapped lips of Richie. Let their mouths part against each other almost lazily, like this was something they’d both always been meant to do. Like this was how they were always supposed to be.

Richie’s hands gripped the backs of Stan’s thighs and Stan squeaked into the kiss as he was hoisted into the air. He didn’t dare break the kiss though, didn’t risk losing this fragility between them.

Stan ended up in Richie’s lap; skirt fanned across his weeping cock and sweater skewed over his collar bones. It felt like this should be rough, should be kinky and dirty and everything the sex between them always was.

But, all this felt like was what simmered in Stan’s heart beneath the heat of the moment. The intention he didn’t dare allow into his touch. All of his smallest hopes of what they _could’ve been_ amplified and exposed as Richie’s fingers slid beneath the skirt.

Each touch from Richie felt like something more than he could let himself believe - more than he’d ever let himself hope for.

“You’re so beautiful, Stan,” Richie whispered against his lips as he slid a finger into him. “Why haven’t I ever told you that? You’re perfect.”

Stan whined, unable to tell if it was from the perfect curl of his finger or the confessions on his tongue.

“It’s true, baby. It’s so fucking true.” Richie kissed his cheek, his neck, his collar. “Best boy in the world. Only one for me.”

And, God, _that_ made Stan keen. Heart aching in his chest as he held Richie closer. He wanted to tell him too. Tell him how he was wonderful and funnier than Stan ever let on and made him feel so safe. But the words wouldn’t come, clogging in his throat as the teary whimpers slipped out instead.

“I won’t hurt you,” Richie said, a mirror of all those years before when Stan’s resolve had crumbled into asking for what he didn’t deserve. “I’d never.”

“I know,” Stan finally choked, fearing he’d lose any chance as the third finger curled in. “I know, I know, I know,”

“Shh,” Richie soothed, smiling against Stan’s temple as the smaller boy hid in his neck. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Richie had never prepped Stan his long in his life, the boy had been ready ages ago. The twitching of his cock beneath the pleated skirt was nearly torturous. But, each step of this was milked until they couldn’t ignore it anymore. Unwilling to hurry when each next moment was closer to when this would be over.

“Please, please,” Stan begged, arms wrapping impossibly tighter around Richie.

“What, baby boy? Want me to fuck you?” And the tone was still soft, but _no_ Stan didn’t want that. Stan wanted - he wanted -

“Make me yours,” He pleaded, voice cracking around his tears as Richie’s fingers stilled. “Please, I wanna be yours.”

He’d never said it like that before. Never implied it could be more than it was. Never wanted to scare Richie off with feelings the boy never asked for.

“Anything for you.”

The burn of Stan sitting on Richie’s cock brought him to tears. The feeling of being so full and cared for and _fuck_ -

“C’mon, Stan,” Richie cooed as he held Stan’s hips. “Show me how beautiful you are.”

Stan didn’t think he should feel beautiful rocking in his lap, his vision blurred from the tears as he ground down into Richie. His face was probably flushed and his hair was a mess and his thighs were quaking already. But, Richie looked at him like he could be.

“That’s it, taking it so well,” God, Stan never wanted him to stop talking. “So perfect, so fucking perfect. I don’t deserve you.”

Richie deserved the fucking _world_ if Stan had any say in it. He said as much and Richie laughed wetly in response. It didn’t feel like they were chasing orgasms, Stan almost didn’t want to cum. Didn’t want to go back to whatever they had been before this.

A moan was startled out of Stan as Richie lifted himself upright. The taller boy began to rock Stan harder, Stan’s arms finding Richie’s neck once more to hang on.

“Richie, fuck, I -”

“You’re so good, baby,” Richie said as he kissed Stan again. “So good. Can you cum for me?”

“I -”

“C’mon, sweet boy,” Stan cried out as Richie angled him just right, just as they’d done a hundred times before. “Let me make you mine.”

Stan wept as he came. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he Richie fucked him through the aftershocks and more as Richie came.

They laid together, neither daring to move as reality settled back around them. Sweaty limbs unwilling to let the other go as both boys shook.

Stan turned his head and saw the blinking clock of the oven.

1:18

Stan had missed his flight.

“Richie?” He whispered, both unwilling and unable to be anything but soft in this moment.

“Yeah?” Richie’s throat sounded clogged. He’d never cried during sex before. Always made fun of Stan and Bill for it.

Stan would tease him back; but he just held him closer instead. He lifted his head to look at Richie. Richie with his wet eyes and red cheeks and wild hair and perfect heart.

“Could I stay here?”

Richie blinked once, twice, before his eyes welled again. A huge trembling smile came across his lips.

“Stan…”

  


\-----

  


Richie had been waiting for Stan for four minutes and already could feel the crisis mode kicking in. Stan was never late. _Richie_ had come bolting down the street himself two minutes late, apology already on his tongue for making Stan miss the beginning of previews.

But Stan wasn’t here.

He couldn’t be inside, Richie had to buy them both tickets still. A late bar mitzvah gift, he had insisted. Richie didn’t have any cash last month at the actual party and Stan had insisted it was fine. But Richie was Stan’s best friend. He wasn’t going to shirk him a birthday present.

Richie began to walk towards the box office; maybe Stan _had_ bought himself a ticket. Which, would have been a shitty move but Richie could buy them popcorn and those buncha crunch Stan liked and sit in the back even though his prescription wasn’t up to date anymore and -

Stan’s bike was along the brick wall. It was on its side.

Richie darted for the alley.

“Hey!” He yelled before he’d even reached the opening, lowering his cracking voice to what he _hoped_ sounded like an adult and not a string bean of a teenager running into what may be his own demise.

Stan was pinned against the wall of the theatre. His polo covered in dirt and untucked. His yarmulke wasn’t atop his wild curls. His lip was bleeding, dribbling down his chin.

Richie, for nearly a moment, hesitated. It wasn’t Vic or Belch in the alley. It wasn’t even Henry.

Patrick Hockstetter had Stan by his hair, lips curled into that dead eye smile as his nose nearly brushed Stan’s own.

But, Stan whimpered and Richie took down the strip of cement like a madman.

He barely caught Patrick drawling, “- shove it in. They’ll hurt you, and you’ll like it -” Before he slammed into Patrick’s ribs.

The two went sprawling, Stan crumbling where he’d been dropped in Patrick’s apparent shock. Richie scrambled up, moving to block Stan while keeping his eyes of the psycho in front of him.

Patrick didn’t lunge at them, he didn’t bother to keep going when there was a chance he could be outnumbered. Richie knew he only liked to go after kids who were alone - they were quicker to cry.

Instead, the lanky teen stood slowly; smile never leaving his face as he looked at the two boys in front of him.

“Bet Tozier bends you over any chance he gets,” He said, voice slow as Richie’s eyes widened. What the fuck was he talking about? “Bet he makes you scream. I can _make_ you scream.”

Richie didn’t move until Patrick had completely left the alley. Richie was on Stan in an instant, ready to dig through Stan’s pockets for a tissue for his lip as he said, “Did he hurt you? Stan, I’m so sorry, my mom needed me to -”

Stan flinched away from Richie for just a second but Richie his heart snap at how scared Stan looked. Richie’s hands stayed in the air, too anxious to try again, until Stan collapsed into him.

He usually bawled, high whimpering noises; the lack of them worried Richie more.

“C’mon, up,” He rushed, pulling Stan by the elbows to stand on wobbly legs. “What you need is some senseless violence and impractical methods of getting into cars.”

Stan laughed a bit at that, runny nose scrunching at Richie’s horrendous warble between voices. He couldn’t decide which Stan needed, which face to wear for him, but the blend between them seemed to be distracting him just enough from whatever the fuck had just happened.

He kept it up as he walked them back to the box office, as they went through concessions, and even until they were shushed taking the two seats in the last row.

Stan lets his head drop onto Richie’s shoulder and Richie rests his cheek on him before he can think to do anything otherwise. Their pinkies brush as they share the armrest, Stan’s soft breath warming Richie through his shirt, Stan’s curls tickling his cheek.

It’s as Stan giggled at a man diving through a window into his ferrari, “Why can’t he just use the _door?”_ That Richie suddenly realises.

_Oh._

_I think I’m in love with Stan._

The feeling didn’t make him sick or scared like he maybe thought it could - like he’d heard it _should._ Nothing about Stan made him feel sick. Stan was… his everything.

Stan sniffled against him, rubbing at his eyes before letting his hand drop into Richie’s own.

“Thank you.” Stan mumbled, keeping his voice soft in the lull of dialogue.

Richie gripped his soft palm before he could lose his nerve.

"Anything for you!” Richie suddenly bellowed, needing to either shout or say nothing at all. Stan’s head whipped up to stare at him wide eyed as patrons began to snap at them.

Richie looked into his eyes with a suddenly watery smile and shouted, “Stan… anything’s okay as long as you’re here!"

Stan’s laugh made being dragged out of the theatre worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> written for my wife and love of my life emma. this was supposed to be a cute quick story that became my hellfic.
> 
> please leave a comment let me know if it sucks.
> 
> tumblr: birdboyinthedeadlights


End file.
